


The Haunting of Harvey Specter

by ladyknightanka



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Matchmaking, Mild Language, Pining, Romantic Comedy, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The awkward morning after a drunken one night stand, Harvey and Mike agree never to discuss their relationship again, but memories of that otherwise foggy affair begin to assail Harvey. How can he continue seeing his clumsy associate in a platonic light when he dreams of making him scream with pleasure every time he falls asleep? Matchmaking women and the green-eyed monster aren't making things any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I, Incubus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on suits_exchange [here](http://suits-exchange.livejournal.com/3939.html). Available on my journal with more extensive notes [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/28783.html#cutid1). Written for the lovely silverfoxflower. Enjoy. :)

-

Part One: I, Incubus

-

Harvey Specter leans against a conference room wall. He's spectating again. He has to admit, Mike can put on quite the show when he wants to.

Mike sits at the long table in the heart of the room, across from two men, one a rival lawyer. Pearson Hardman's newest client stands beside the young associate, pacing too much to settle down. All eyes are on Mike as he slides a thick packet of papers over to opposing counsel.

“What is this?” the lawyer asks, after a cursory glance through it. His finger, its nail finely manicured and almost feminine, taps against the first sheet. All the others had been provided to both parties beforehand. The first, though, is plain and lined, out of any old notebook, and Mike's childish scrawl is stark on it. It's new.

Harvey refrains from rolling his eyes. He wishes the kid had taken some of the expensive stationary down in the storage room, or that Mike had at least mitigated his use of colorful pens and markers, because he knows no one will take him seriously like this. If he didn't see for himself how clever Mike could be, he certainly wouldn't think much of the unruly mop of blond hair, the cheap suit on a stick figure, or the big blue eyes. Opposing counsel had laughed when Harvey first introduced Mike as the handler for this case – in fact, smug, patronizing lines still bracket the man's upturned lips.

“My calculations.” Mike smiles – no, _smirks_ , an expression taken straight from Harvey's arsenal, and suddenly Harvey doesn't have to worry anymore. The cake has been baked, cut, and is ready to serve. Mike sucks in a deep breath and Harvey allows himself to cant forward a step, profoundly interested in the spectacle. “You see, Mr. Sovereign, it's through use of my client's product that yours gained leverage on the market. If you split your business now and go against the initially drawn contract, both of you will suffer immense loss, you more than my client. About seventy percent of all sales will be negated, so if your gross annual income is a hundred million even, you'll make less than twenty four.”

Mike directs his entire pitch to the opposing client, not counsel, and the effect is evident. Mr. Sovereign blanches whiter than the diamonds on his ring, while his lawyer's jaw and many jowls quiver. “W-what?”

“I'm good with numbers,” Mike says. He folds his hands together and beams like an angelic kindergartener. Harvey distantly wonders whether that makes him the proud teacher or the parent, but he's distracted by their own client flitting around in an attempt to express gratitude to them both simultaneously.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mr. Garland says, as if he's praying and Pearson Hardman is a church.

Mike stands up and accepts a handshake that becomes an awkward, exuberant half-hug, but doesn't reply. Although Harvey shoots his associate a look, he's all smiles when he tells their client, “It was our pleasure, Steven. A good experience for my little protege.”

“Um, yeah,” Mike says, still short of the victory high Harvey had expected of him. It doesn't matter, anyway. Everything is soon finalized and they're released from the business that had whiled away their hours for the last two weeks, at least a couple million dollars richer.

Jessica will be pleased, Louis will envy the way Louis does best, and honestly, Harvey is quite chuffed by his puppy's success himself. As they walk out of the conference room, he drapes an arm over Mike's narrow shoulders. “C'mon, kid, let me take you out for a drink.”

“Er,” Mike begins, reluctant for a reason Harvey doesn't know.

Harvey gives him a quick squeeze and interrupts, “One time offer: dinner is included.”

Mike's blue eyes flash up to his face and stare, though his gait is the same. Finally, he nods. “Sure, old man. Just don't order anything that gives you heartburn.”

Harvey extricates himself with a push to Mike's arm and a laugh. Slowly but surely, beneath Harvey's expert hands, the kid is learning. Now, if only he'd work on his gloating.

-

An hour later, Harvey is capitalizing on their resounding triumph near a pretty redhead dressed for success. “The way my heart swelled, Sera, when my young associate reeled in the catch... Ah, well, it's indescribable,” he says, a bit huskier than normal. She shivers like she feels his breath fan across her face. “Reminds me of my youth.”

“Aw, Mr. Specter, you aren't old at all,” she exclaims, her hand poised on his bicep. She leans forward and the bust-line of her dress wriggles down that much farther. His eyes flick to it briefly, but his mother taught him to be a gentleman, so they return to her thickly glossed lips. “I can tell you're a winner.”

She's writhing on the line, same as Mike had opposing counsel earlier, but the moment Harvey's hand starts for his metaphorical fishing rod's handle, someone else touches his free arm. Mike is there. The lights above are dim, mood lights, but his eyes are still vivid and blue beneath them. Harvey has never seen them anything but, even when Mike is clearly discomfited.

“I, uh, know you said we should have dinner later, Harvey,” Mike says, while fidgeting from foot-to-cheap-loafer-wearing-foot, “but I'm feeling kind of sick. I think I'll head home.”

“Is this your associate?” Sera asks shrilly.

Harvey can tell it's a way to regain his attention. He gives a curt nod and Mike winces. Before she can speak again, Harvey says, “I should see the kid home, Sera. I wouldn't feel right about letting him face New York streets alone, without a ride and as sick as a dog.”

“I'm not–” Mike begins.

Sera ignores him to stare up into Harvey's eyes, her powdered face puffed like a poisonous fish. “You're such a good boss,” she eventually replies. “You'll call me later, won't you? I should probably be getting back to my friend, anyway.”

“Scout's honor.” Harvey smiles and crosses his heart. He thinks he sees Mike roll his eyes, but Sera, thankfully, does not. She quickly flags down a girl at an adjacent table, and the two of them soon vanish into the crowd. Once they're out of sight, Harvey pivots to face Mike fully. “What's wrong?” he asks. Although it's a question, Mike can't worm out of this with a one word response. Harvey won't take any bullshit.

“I'm really not feeling well,” Mike says. He looks down at the marble floor. Harvey doesn't respond; he doesn't have to. Of his own accord, after a few seconds, Mike continues, “I-it's my grandmother. Grammy's sick, Harvey. I m-mean, I knew it would happen, logically, but I didn't think the doctors would tell me so soon that I might have to say goodbye. _I can't_.”

The word becomes a mantra. Mike is mumbling it to himself as his eyes grow brighter and brighter beneath the wan lights above. That, added to how his voice is a mess of tremors...

Harvey swallows. His mouth tastes too dry, tastes like sawdust, and the fingers of one hand twitch at his side, the other's balled into a fist. “Let's get a drink,” he murmurs, grateful that he sounds calm. Mike startles at the abrupt suggestion, but allows Harvey to grasp him by the elbow and lead him to the bar. They take a seat, Harvey helping Mike up more than anything, and the older man gestures to one of the displayed bottles, as well as a line of shot-glasses. “Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender, who fills two and slides them to him. Harvey offers one to Mike and says gently, “Drink up, rookie.”

His associate nods, his usually ebullient face a mask of misery, eyes too shiny, but the burn of his own drink distracts Harvey. Perfect.

-

Skin. Soft skin, pulled tight over tapered hips.

His palms cradle the jut of them as he aligns his face with one pale cheek.

“Do it,” a voice moans, _begs_. He thinks he can come from the wretched, pleasured sound alone, but he can't place it.

He presses a wide smirk, a kiss, into the ivory canvas offered to him. He nips it repeatedly, light little bites, then snakes his tongue out to soothe the pain. He inches closer and closer to his lover's quivering, eager pucker. When he does lave his tongue in, a groan thrums through his body, vibrates into the body held against his, and they both ring out a requiem.

“Oh, oh, Harvey,” the voice continues to cry. Its owner pushes back into him, all soap and musk and _human_ , a potent taste, a sensory stimulus, all around him. And yet he can't pinpoint any of it. It dulls as he thinks, nowhere near powerful enough, like water cradled in his palms, an inevitability.

All too soon, the fantasy fades and fizzles away.

-

The sun wakes Harvey up. It rises high in the sky and punches him in the eyelids. He screws his eyes shut all the more securely, in response, but his head continues to pound, a marching band's drum-line. It's when he tries to shield his face with an arm that he realizes there's a problem. The appendage refuses to budge, no matter how hard he tugs, and he _has_ to look now. He doesn't expect what he finds.

Mike Ross is burrowed into his side, all but his naked legs hidden by Harvey's sheets, his head pillowed on Harvey's arm and his fair hair close enough to tickle Harvey's cheek. It smells faintly of _Head &Shoulders_, which is below Harvey's personal use, but it wouldn't be a bad smell if Harvey's heart wasn't beating so damn fast. He can't remember anything – nothing farther than their _coup d'état_ at the bar last night.

“Mike,” Harvey calls, low and calm at first. He grows steadily more agitated when his associate merely makes a soft snuffling sound and nuzzles against him. Harvey jerks his arm out roughly, withholding a flinch at the numb, leaden weight of it.

Mike gasps awake. His hair is more of a mess than usual, tousled by enamored fingers that Harvey will not think about, and a fringe falls over his rounded eyes. They rove to case Harvey's bedroom, then ultimately stop on the man himself. “W-what is...?”

“We obviously had too much to drink,” Harvey says by way of answer, tone terse and cold enough that Mike shivers, though Harvey chooses to attribute that to their nudity. The blankets have fallen even lower down Mike's bare back. He can almost see the kid's ass and wonders if it's as pale as the rest of him, if it blushes the same way.

“Um, yeah,” Mike agrees, somewhat hesitant, before Harvey can dwell on that blasphemous thought for too long. He's a good employee like that.

Harvey hurries out of bed and drags the sheets with him, deaf to Mike's squeak. He's kind enough to throw them back, dead on top of Mike's head, once he finds his briefs, which have somehow made it up all the way to the ceiling fan. He'll have to think about _that_ later, too.

“I'd lend you a suit,” he tells Mike instead, “but our coworkers might get suspicious. I _know_ Donna would. Better you hurry and dress yourself in whatever you had, so we aren't any later. You looking like a slob is nothing new, anyway.”

Mike gets up with the blanket hugging him like a cape. “Okay,” he mumbles quietly. He starts searching for and picks up all of his discarded articles of clothing, but Harvey stops him when he reaches the door, presumably to change in the bathroom.

“Mike?” He ignores the way the kid turns back toward him hopefully. “You know that no one can know about this, right?”

“Yeah,” Mike says again, another defeated stab of a word. His shoulders, hidden by the blanket, are slumped so low, they're in danger of touching his chest. He's limping, too.

Harvey nods, satisfied, and lopes past his bedraggled associate. He's going to put this behind him the way he does every other mistake.

-

Harvey and Mike are dressed and out the door, into Ray's waiting town-car, within the next fifteen minutes. They even have two of the leftover muffins a baker client of Harvey's had gifted him earlier in the week. Despite that, there's an accident, Ray gets caught in traffic, and they are egregiously late to work.

Donna's text reaches Harvey when he's already on the sidewalk. She can probably see him through the glass windows of his office, though he can't crane his neck high enough to check. _You're in trouble_ , it reads, accompanied by a facetiously winking emoticon. Harvey's hand tightens around his cellphone, but he really wants nothing more than to throw it.

“Hurry up,” he tells Mike, who has stumbled out of the town-car after him, clumsy as ever. At the snapped command, his associate straightens up to oblige, all round eyes and messy hair. Harvey whirls around on his heel and stalks into the building. The security personnel see the quiet fury he wears, tailored like his suit, and allow him to pass. Mike isn't half as lucky. By the time they let him go, the elevator doors have closed and formed another barrier between him and Harvey.

Upstairs, Harvey doesn't run to his office. He doesn't even power walk. His steps are merely a mite faster than usual. Yet Louis, who has apparently been waiting for him, smirks. It's not very pretty. Harvey takes the high road and ignores him, at least for the moment. Later, he'll make more fake wife jokes. Those never fail to have their desired effect on Louis.

“Jessica's in her office,” Donna informs him, the minute he reaches his destination. “She came by with what must have been an important case, then noticed you weren't here yet. I tried to stall her.”

Harvey sucks in a deep breath through flared nostrils and forces a smile. “I'll go talk to her. I'm sure it's fine.” And it is, but isn't.

When he finds Jessica, she's reclining in the chair behind her desk like a mafia don, a cup of tea cradled in both hands. Her frown is harsh over the brim, even as she takes a sip. “You know, Harvey, while there are certain privileges afforded to senior partners, a level of maturity that I fear may be beyond you is the cost,” she says.

“Jessica,” Harvey begins. He wants to protest the unfairness of this, of what amounted to a pop quiz to test his work ethic. However, he knows that would be immature, thus playing into Jessica's hands, so he only says, “I apologize. Something...personal, unfortunately, held me up this morning.”

Jessica arches an eyebrow at him, but her expression has thawed. She can read the authenticity of his words as easily as she can a contract drawn up by a first year associate. Instead of answering, she pulls a thick file out of a drawer at her desk and lets it drop atop the mahogany structure. Harvey's eyes dart between it and hers. He slowly accepts it and retreats.

“She spank you?” Donna asks upon his return.

Harvey tosses the file onto her desk. It lands with a loud thunk. “Give this to Mike,” he commands, before holing himself into his office.

Donna stares at his closed door for a moment, then mutters, “What crawled up his ass and died?” No one has an answer for her.

“H-hey, Donna,” Mike breathes, a few minutes later. He has run all the way to meet her, she can tell, because his hair is plastered with sweat to his forehead and his suit clings to his bowed form, bent at the waist as he pants. He fidgets under her stare and shakily points at the manilla folder her nails drum on. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” she says, “and don't piddle on this one, puppy, because your master's in a foul mood.”

He smiles at her and accepts it, but she doesn't miss the way the expression crumples the instant he's turned. The glass around them is reflective, after all. Donna scrutinizes her own frown within it.

-

Hours later, Mike is still working, still pouring through the bulky records Harvey gave him, when all he really wants to do is throw up all over the pristine white pages. He grabs his _Red Bull_ to gulp back the acrid taste of bile, but his fingers jerk without his permission and he almost drops the can.

“Mike!” a voice says, suddenly behind him.

Mike jumps and his chair swivels. Rachel stands in front of it, her arms crossed, a stiletto-heeled foot tapping. “When did you get here? I didn't hear you,” he asks her, an accusing edge to the inquiry.

“I've been standing here for the last five minutes,” Rachel informs him, her full lips twisted into a frown. “If you haven't noticed that, Mr. ten discrepancies in five minutes, I'm reluctantly worried. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Mike says. His arms span out to emphasize, but only end up knocking the first two sheets of paper on his towering stack to the ground. He groans and crouches to pick them up.

Rachel eyes him for a bit longer, then grabs his shoulder with one hand. He shakes it halfheartedly, but doesn't manage to extricate her. “You're coming to lunch with me and that's _final_ ,” she says.

“No,” Mike whines. He makes to snap up his folder and squishes it to his chest. “I'm almost done proofing the fiftieth page. I can't go now.”

“You look like the Grimm Reaper's uglier cousin. Final means final, Mike.” Rachel's frown has morphed into a no-nonsense scowl. Her nails dig into his flesh through the flimsy material of his shirt.

Mike flinches and stammers, “O-okay, fine. Fine, I'll _go_. If this is how you get dates, Jesus...”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Rachel asks with a grin. “Now, come on, there's this amazing new, authentic bistro I want you to try.” Mike lets her help him pack his things up – and actually lets himself believe he can _let_ her do anything she doesn't want to – before trudging through the firm's exit after her, into the cool air of the city.

-

“Here, try some of my _cassoulet_ ,” Rachel says, a spoonful of some mushy brown thing aimed at Mike's mouth.

He looks from it to her eager face, then replies, “It, um, it looks like a chunk of something's kidney. I'll pass and wait for my coffee, if that's okay with you?”

Rachel's spoon dunks back into its bowl and splashes broth over the edge. She glares at Mike, ignoring the mess. “You know what your problem is, Ross? No manners. A girl takes you out to lunch, _on her_ –” Here, she dutifully turns a deaf ear to his willingness to pay for the meal, “–and you don't even bother to at least _sample_ a few things! Wimp!”

“Here is your coffee, _monsieur_ ,” a waitress interrupts. Mike glances up at her and mouths a thank you, just as she trips over an upraised edge of the plush carpet below and the tray flies out of her hands. The paper coffee cup hits Mike in the face, its contents raining over him and drenching the torso of his shirt, before landing on the ground near the tray. “My goodness!” the waitress exclaims.

“Damn, Mike,” a less eloquent Rachel adds, as Mike hisses and rubs at his hot cheeks. The waitress slowly moves forward and unfolds one of the cloth napkins on the table, but Rachel takes it from her and says, “It's okay, I'll handle this. Can you get him a bowl of cold water?”

“ _Oui_ ,” the waitress agrees. She bustles off. Rachel stands and runs to Mike's side of the booth.

“I'm okay,” he tells her, though his face and eyes continue to sting. Rachel just huffs and leans down in front of him, using the towel to first pat his face dry, then dab at his shirt. The brown will probably never come out, Mike thinks sadly, but when it's no longer sopping wet, he gently pushes Rachel's hands aside and starts unbuttoning his top. “Guess the food's on me now, huh?” he jokes, which manages to crack a smile out of Rachel's stoic mask.

She inhales when she sees his flushed skin, however. “Damn, Mike,” she says again, but before she can finish her snarky remark, her jaw falls open.

“What is it, Rach?” Mike asks her, unable to get a good look himself. “It's not a third degree burn, is it? I want to say it doesn't feel like a third degree burn, but it kinda sorta does.”

“No, you wimp,” Rachel tries to whisper. Instead, it sounds like a whip snap in the silence, so loud that Mike is glad there's no one else in the restaurant to hear her new favorite pet-name for him. She jabs a nail into the side column of his neck. “What attacked you last night, eh, Mr. Ross? A bear? Or is a rhino the only thing horny enough to make a mess like that?”

“What are you...?” Mike finds his reflection in a silver napkin dispenser and trails off. There's a discoloration on his throat – several, actually – that's too dark, at a heady bluish purple, to attribute to a coffee burn. He touches it gingerly with the tip of one finger and winces at the ache, feeling a slightly raised contusion. “T-that's a hickey,” he gasps.

“Yes, Sherlock, I know,” Rachel replies. “What I'm wondering is, _whose_ hickey is that? Spare me no details. I told _you_ how I lost my virginity, remember?”

“That's not the same thing,” Mike says. He's blushing so intensely now that the headache that has been assaulting him since morning feels like a fever, strumming beneath his temples. The stubborn set of Rachel's mouth tells him she won't help matters. “I really can't talk about it,” he persists.

“Was it Donna?” Rachel inquires, with a waggle of her eyebrows. Mike viscerally sinks back into his chair and heaves another deep breath. Rachel laughs at the reaction, but doesn't give up. “A client? Are you back together with Jenny? You and Trevor have a different kind of _fight_?”

“No, no, and no,” Mike says. He drops his head into his hands to keep from grimacing at her.

Rachel curls a dark strand of hair around one finger and chews on her lower lip. “Is it...Harvey?” she eventually asks. “I _have_ seen him stare at your ass a few times, but no...it can't be, can it?”

Mike's chair scrapes back and almost topples. He stares at his friend with huge, horrified eyes, his skin pale again. “Rachel, please, _please_ let this go,” he begs her.

“It _was_ Harvey,” she exhales in reply. Mike's head falls back into the cradle of his palms and his whole body droops in defeat. “I-I'm sorry, Mike,” Rachel says, after regarding him for a moment. The words are lodged in her throat, thick with embarrassment and regret, but she forces them out into the open. “I shouldn't have pushed. We don't have to talk about it.”

Mike swallows audibly a couple of times, and when he looks back up at her, his eyes are red-rimmed from something other than misplaced coffee. “He doesn't want to. Talk about it, that is. Ever. He's...disgusted.”

“Harvey?” Rachel asks, quieter now. Mike nods miserably. “Oh, sweetie, what happened? You can tell me if you want?”

So Mike does. He talks and she nods along, going so far as to reach out and hold his hand. Finally, she declares, “Well, it's official, Harvey Specter is a dick,” and Mike bursts out laughing.

“I don't think the rest of New York's female population would agree,” he says, once the balloon of mirth in his chest has withered away to nothingness again. Rachel shrugs, but her answer is cut off by the waitress' hasty return. They both eye her heavily laden tray with barely concealed worry. “Um, hi.”

“I am so sorry, _monsieur_ ,” she says again, inclining her head. She sets down the bowl of water Rachel had requested, more towels, new cups of coffee, and sandwiches. “Paninis and drinks on ze house.”

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Mike says. The waitress bows again and runs off.

Rachel picks one of the panini platters up, takes a bite, and promptly moans. “Well played, Ross, well played.” When Mike chuckles again, she grins and tacks on, “See, this wasn't so bad, was it? Batgirl and Robin do just fine without Batman's supervision.”

Mike grins, too. “Aside from a couple of bumps, actually, no. Thanks, Rach. Although, I prefer Nightwing.”

Rachel throws a bread-roll at him.

-

Back at the office, Donna stares at Harvey's shut door. It stares back, before the shade at the small window flares out, incited by a sudden gust of wind.

“Ha,” Donna says, under her breath, “you blinked. I win.”

With that, she stands and starts for the door. Without knocking, she opens it. Harvey, who is combing through something on his desk, looks up. “Is there an emergency with a client?”

“No, there's an emergency with _me_ ,” Donna answers, her expression unsmiling and serious.

“What? Donna, I'm not in the mood for–” Harvey starts to say, but Donna stops at his desk and slams her palms down on it, jarringly loud.

“No, _I_ am not in the mood for your games, Harvey Specter. Whatever you're upset about, I don't care,” Donna snaps. “You are going to get your ass out of the office, feed it, and come back with a cheerier disposition if it's the _last_ thing you do, or I will end you myself.”

Harvey opens his mouth, then closes it again, a tic in his jaw. He knows she'll stay true to her threat. If he doesn't leave now, she'll reschedule all off his meetings to either the ass-crack of dawn or post-midnight, whatever is most troubling for him, till he's nothing more than a shell of the closer he currently is. “I...am feeling somewhat peckish,” he reluctantly acquiesces.

Donna smiles at him, all triumph and fifty dollar lip-gloss. “And, while you're out, bring me back a cappuccino? One shot of chocolate, not too much foam, because I'm watching my figure.”

Harvey doesn't agree. He also doesn't disagree. What he does do, however, is prowl out of the room to the heart of the firm, where all the associates are. He's not glad that Donna didn't follow, but he's decidedly not sad, either. He's complex like that.

“Mike,” he calls, when his associate's cubicle is within viewing range.

Kyle Durant ambles out from the box beside it and informs him, “Ross is gone, Harvey. Zane came by to see him and, of course, he ran out at the first sign of a pretty face. Maybe I could be of service?”

“You?” Harvey analyzes Kyle till he squirms, then snarls, “It's Mr. Specter to you, Durant. And I'm in no need of help.” He lashes around and stalks back the way he came, leaving the stunned associate behind him.

Donna blinks at the clang of the door that impacts behind Harvey upon his entrance. “You're back already? I _know_ the line at my favorite café winds around the block, at the very least.”

“Just order something for us both,” Harvey barks. “And please, give me some of your _Advil_. I don't want to go out right now.”

“O-kay,” Donna answers bemusedly. She retrieves her painkiller bottle, allows a few to pop into Harvey's waiting grasp, and watches him escape back into his office. “Well, Master Dracula won't be ditching the coffin anytime soon,” she mutters to herself, shaking her fiery head.

-

It isn't much later that Rachel and Mike return to Pearson Harman, doggie bags of more free food in tow.

“Thanks again, Rachel,” Mike says once they're inside the elevators, a huge smile directed to his friend, who laughs.

“Thank _you_ for that kicked puppy face of yours. That poor waitress was eating out of your hand, and don't even get me started on the manager,” Rachel replies, but when Mike's lips twitch and tuck down, she stops giggling. “What's up?”

Mike kicks lightly at the bolted metal doors. “Nothing. Just, _really_ , thanks. I've been feeling pretty crappy all morning.”

“Hey, it's okay,” Rachel says. She butts her shoulders with him comfortingly. “What are girlfriends for, anyway? And by girlfriend, I mean the _Pretty Little Liars_ sleepovers and pillow-fights kind, not the Meredith and Derek _Gray's Anatomy_ love affair, fyi.”

“Yes, Rachel, I know.” Mike rolls his eyes and bumps back against her. “Why would I want a girlfriend who makes such _shameful_ TV references, anyway? It appalls my deep geek heart.”

Rachel slaps his arm, then uses the leverage to push Mike back into the stall once the elevator opens, so she's out first. She sticks her tongue out at him. “You deserved that, Ross. That was a low blow.”

By the time Mike follows her out, she has already flitted into her office. Mike sulks at no one in particular for a while, before remembering his waiting and sadly unfinished paperwork. He ducks into his cubicle and remains there till the sky begins to dim outside. His efforts are rewarded by a signed, sealed, and dated final packet to deliver to his boss.

Harvey, he finds, has been similarly locked up for the day. Mike can see him scowling at a baseball through the glass walls partitioning his office, obviously in no better a mood than he'd been in the morning. Donna, too, makes a face at him.

“Can you please give this to him?” Mike asks her, proffering the file. Donna shakes her head without bothering to speak, and he pouts, widening his eyes a bit. “Please, Donna? Please? He'll literally eat me alive if I walk through that door right now!”

Donna meets his gaze, an eyebrow arched. “Do I look like a slave to you, rookie? Am I here to run at your beck and call?” Mike shakes his head furiously. “Good, because I'm _not_ , so scurry along and give Daddy his toys.”

“O-okay,” Mike says, his bottom lip still jutting out. With the folder pressed to his chest, separated by _Tom Ford_ from his rapidly beating heart, he stops at the threshold of Harvey's office and raises a fist to knock.

“Would you quit stalling?” Harvey demands from within. “You've never been anything but rude when it came to knocking before, kid.” Mike staggers to comply and shuts the door behind him. He hands the file to Harvey, and his boss starts leafing through it, but the instant Mike thinks it's safe to escape, Harvey breaks the quiet again. “You did good work here.”

“Thanks, Harvey,” Mike whispers. The words, so few, wisp out on an elated breath. Harvey isn't one to dole out praise very often and it's meaningful when he does.

His boss raises a finger. “I wasn't done yet, Mike. I was going to say, next time, perhaps if you _don't_ waste hours you're getting paid for fraternizing, you'll do even better. It's a good thing the weekend is here. Maybe you can clean up your act sometime in between oversleeping and loafing around?”

“I, uh, I...” Mike works his jaw, but can't seem to decide on a response. He soon settles on a curt nod and runs out of the room.

Donna's eyes trail him till he disappears, then turn disapprovingly toward Harvey. “Did you _have_ to break the puppy's widdle heart?”

“Go home, Donna,” is the man's only recourse. She shrugs and stands up. For now, she'll let him throw his tantrum. Tomorrow waits for no man, best damn closer in the city or not, and neither does Donna's curiosity.

-

Hot water from his sun-shaped cloudburst shower-head beats against Harvey's back, once he's safely enclosed in his condo. He cards his hands through his wet hair with a content sigh. No one is happier about the work day's end than him.

It's barely nine o'clock when Harvey falls into bed, but sleep accepts him with open arms the second he does.

-

Warm breaths puff across Harvey's belly. He's standing, but a fair head of hair is bowed at the knees before him. “Mi–?” he tries to say.

A sweet smile is promptly wrapped around his cock, pink lips stretched by merriment. Harvey moans at the combined effect of the warm hand that follows, massaging his balls, while a talented tongue paints him root to tip in saliva, prodding at his slit. Soft hair tickles his abs as his lover's head bobs.

Harvey burrows his fingers into the spiky locks and throws his head back. The hot mouth around him constricts in a swallow. “Ugh, I'm gonna–”

His thousand dollar, thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets are a ruined, sticky mess when he wakes. Harvey slaps them aside angrily.

-

The next night, there's a beautiful woman on his arm, Ray has dropped him off in front of the most chic restaurant in the city, and Harvey is well on his way to being cured.

“You know, I never thought you'd call me,” a newly divorced Lauren, formerly Judge Pearl's wife, says. She's wearing a sleek black dress that hugs her number eight figure and contrasts beautifully with Harvey's navy pinstripe suit.

Harvey shoots a charming smirk at her. “Is it so strange for me to want to spend time with a gorgeous woman?” he asks.

“I suppose not,” Lauren laughs. She and Harvey both nod at a waiter, who leads them into the foyer of the restaurant, to a booth of their own. “Thank you,” she adds, when Harvey holds her chair out for her.

He smiles, the waiter returns with a complimentary sample of _Armand de Brignac_ champagne to thank Harvey for his derailment of a suit against the establishment, and the night starts off great. They laugh over bread-sticks and pasta, discuss work and leisure. It's only half an hour in, when they start to debate their differing opinions of Norman Rockwell's _The Law Student_ , that things go straight to hell.

“The brush strokes denote the angst beneath his wry smile,” Lauren argues. She traces a long, opalescent nail over the burgundy tablecloth, from the heart of a silk napkin swan to the artful vase at the center of a table. “You aren't an art connoisseur so you don't notice the subtle toning.”

“Ah, but I _was_ a law student,” Harvey counters, smirking, “and while we studied hard, the Argonaut boys and I can tell you how much fun we had. Once, while the dean was visiting, we dressed the statue...”

Lauren nods, even laughs at the right points, but Harvey prides his ability to read people. Mike nods along to things Harvey says, yet his is an excited nod, like that of a puppy who is waiting to be asked a trick, and knows he'll eventually receive a treat for it. When Mike nods, Harvey can almost _see_ the instant that everything clicks for him. Lauren hums a yes and it's nothing more than manners.

He's hardly surprised when she cuts him off to ask, “So...you haven't seen the judge again, have you? D-Donald?”

Harvey allows his mouth to quirk. “No. The once was enough for him, I suppose. He was never the judge on any of my court appearances again.” He doesn't mention that he wanted to push for Donald Pearl _never_ to oversee a court again. That won't make for polite dinner conversation.

“Ah, of course, that's good,” Lauren replies, unable to look away from the swirling pattern on the vase. She trails off into an inattentive silence. Harvey can't, for the life of him, seem to hold her gaze again. He can't win the way he always effortlessly does.

Then, a flash of gold catches his eyes. Before he knows what he's doing, Harvey's legs have swung out of his booth, his chair has screeched back, and he has a death grip on the narrow shoulder of a waiter. “U-um, can I help you, sir?” a kid younger than Mike inquires. He has hair of a slightly lighter blond shade, and eyes dark like Harvey's, rather than as radiant as the blue of his associate's.

“A glass of water,” Harvey answers lamely. “My throat is dry.”

The waiter nods and hurries off. Lauren is standing when Harvey turns back toward the table. “It's getting late,” she murmurs, smiling apologetically. “I really should be getting home. My roommate will wait up.”

“...Fine.” Harvey steps around her to claim his seat again. “At least let my driver accompany you?” he prompts, but otherwise does nothing to halt his date.

“No, I'll take a cab,” Lauren says. She starts the path to leave the restaurant, but pauses and returns to stand over Harvey, who frowns up at her. “I _am_ sorry. I'm a little stuck on someone, I guess.”

“That's okay,” Harvey replies, more genuinely than before.

“Thank you, but...Harvey, if you are, too, it's okay. Legendary lawyer or not, you're still human.” With a final smile, she flounces off. He doesn't even have time for a witty response.

That's what's most upsetting, Harvey tells himself. It's fine if a date falls apart. That happens to everyone, even the best, at some point. For Lauren to think _he_ is like her, on the other hand, that he's pining the way she is, is the farthest thing from fine. Harvey drowns himself in the remaining champagne.

Once he's done with it and orders more, stronger alcohol, a new opportunity presents itself. The blond waiter from earlier offers his purchase to him. “Here, sir.” When Harvey stands to his full height and smirks, the waiter continues, “Or, uh, would you rather take this to go?”

“I'd rather take _you_ to go,” Harvey says.

Although the young man flushes an acute tint of pink that Harvey rather enjoys, he doesn't decline. “My name is Frankie,” he introduces, instead.

Harvey grins all the wider, puts an arm around Frankie's back, and leads him into the town-car. Later that night, Frankie will limp out of his bed and gush about the great time he had. Harvey, however, will nod courteously, leer gone, as he sees the kid out of his condo. Then, dissatisfied, he'll fall asleep.

-

_To Be Continued!_

-


	2. Malleus Maleficarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The awkward morning after a drunken one night stand, Harvey and Mike agree never to discuss their relationship again, but memories of that otherwise foggy affair begin to assail Harvey. How can he continue seeing his clumsy associate in a platonic light when he dreams of making him scream with pleasure every time he falls asleep? Matchmaking women and the green-eyed monster aren't making things any easier.

-

Part Two: Malleus Maleficarum

-

Hands pull Harvey down, fingers fastened firmly in his hair. “I've always wanted to run my hands through this,” a voice says, _laughs_ , familiar and bubbly and a match to light the flame in Harvey's chest.

He extricates himself with a huff and cranes his neck. Crinkled blue eyes meet his. Their owner is flushed, but smiling. Harvey's own mouth swerves up at one corner. He crushes the smirk to his partner's.

The rest of their bodies follow. Soon, they're torso to torso, heart to heart, but Harvey's knees dig into the bedspread and his lover's hook over his shoulders. The head of Harvey's cock broaches in. It's tight, so tight, even though his fingers scissored and stretched and stimulated for as long as they could both bear. With a grunt, he pushes deep inside, stays a moment, pulls out, pushes in, rinse and repeat.

Outside, the moon hangs and smiles, a sickle in the sky, beneficent as ever. It halos over their tangled limbs, their contorted, pleasured faces, and seems to beam over Harvey, seems to ignore him entirely. He propels forward, a perpetual motion, but can't screw his eyes shut from the sight of his partner's face, can't deny it anymore, even to himself.

He wakes up with a single name on his lips: “Mike.”

-

“You're not still PMSing, are you, princess?” Donna asks him first thing the next morning. “Because, if you are, I have a hot water bottle you can borrow?”

Harvey scowls at her, then expels the expression with a sigh. “I'm sorry for my foul mood earlier, Donna. I'm happy to report that I'm feeling better now.”

“Interesting weekend?” she inquires knowingly, her head in her hands like he's a show to watch – not that he wouldn't be a good one.

Harvey suppresses a cringe and says, “It was certainly _that_. Yours?”

“Oh, _mine_ could definitely qualify as such,” Donna answers with a smirk, a gleam in her eyes that actually makes Harvey pull back a step. When she notices, Donna laughs off the tension and waves a file at him. “This is the case from last week. Shall I drop it off on the puppy's desk?”

“No, No,” Harvey replies quickly. “I'll manage.” He takes the file from her and pivots around.

“You behave, Harvey,” Donna calls after him.

Harvey dodges a bemused Rachel and says, “Me? I'm always on my best behavior, ma'am.” Mike, who has headphones plugged into his slowly bobbing head, jumps in his seat when Harvey flicks the folder onto his desk. Harvey clears his throat. “It...should be fine if you double-check this with the same attention to detail you did last time,” he mutters, before turning back the way he came.

“Be still my heart,” Mike exclaims, his hands clutched just beneath the collar of his shirt. “Was that a compliment, Harvey?”

“It'll be your last if you don't shut up,” Harvey grumbles, yet a good-natured smile tugs at his lips. It slinks off once he notices that Mike has picked up his highlighter and already has the cap between his grinning teeth. Harvey doesn't run, but his retirement to his office is admittedly faster than it might have otherwise been.

-

Rachel pulls up a chair in front of Donna's desk the moment Harvey's gone. “So...have you thought about what we talked about?”

Donna huffs, the air dispelling the fringe on her forehead. “I can't believe Harvey's been in such a tizzy over deflowering Mike. I can't believe _he_ didn't tell me. I'm supposed to know!”

“I can't believe what a dick Harvey is,” Rachel replies with a shrug. “Mike is a really sweet guy and my friend. I don't like anyone else screwing around with him.”

Donna shakes her head. “I get where you're coming from, but Harvey isn't a bad guy,” she argues. “He's just...well, he's an obtuse idiot, but one who could be really good for our little rookie.”

“I guess you'd know best,” Rachel says, but her arms and legs are crossed and the bow of her mouth is unconvinced.

“C'mon, Zane, you know it's true,” Donna rebuffs, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Mike needs a big, strong man to protect him from himself and who better to show Harvey where his heart is than the cutest puppy ever? Now, will you help me help them pull their heads out of their asses and put those otherwise appreciable muscles to better use?”

“Okay,” Rachel agrees. She sticks out an arm to Donna, who accepts her hand for a shake. “I guess we can discuss our battle plan for Operation Hike more. Same place as last time?” Harvey enters through the double doors before Donna can answer, and the women spring part. “Goodbye,” Rachel says, then makes a hasty exit.

Harvey glances over his shoulder at the paralegal and tuts pityingly. “I hope you gave that girl something good for her soul, Donna.”

Donna grabs a handful of candy from the bowl on her desk and tosses it at him, harrumphing when he dodges, but doesn't quite succeed in hiding the smile she wears. “Did you have fun with Mike?” she asks. Harvey chokes on the truffle he's popped into his mouth, and she covers up her grin on the excuse of a cough.

“I gave the kid a file, not a lap-dance,” Harvey finally deadpans. He heads into his office and shuts the door.

“You _wish_ it was a lap-dance,” Donna shouts after him. Harold, whom she refers to as _Bambi-associate_ in her mind, stops to stare at her with big, panicky eyes. She glares at him and he trips on his shoelaces. She laughs at his upraised rump fondly. If Operation Hike is a success, she'll launch a rescue mission for Harold, too. For now, her hands are full.

Donna spends the rest of the day observing Harvey, eyes hawk-like over the crown of a magazine. The mission isn't very advantageous from her desk, as Harvey keeps visiting Mike on the rationale of, “Keeping the little idiot from screwing up.” Donna thinks he simply doesn't want Mike around any of the paralegals or other associates. Harvey is predictable that way.

It's while he's on one of his mentoring adventures that Donna gets an idea. “The phone rang,” she informs her boss, once he's back. “It was Wyatt. He was panicking about some leak of his newest design and _needs_ to see you for lunch.”

Harvey sighs and turns back toward the exit. “ _Of course_ he does,” he mutters.

“Why don't you take Mike?” Donna adds, before he can fully step out again. “I'm pretty sure he hasn't had lunch yet.”

Harvey hesitates, but eventually nods. “Kid shouldn't skip lunch as often as he does,” he says lightly. “He's already nothing but skin and bones as is.”

It's only after Harvey has shouted, “Mike, get your bony ass over here,” and his associate is standing at attention, that Donna whispers, “Didn't stop you from tapping that,” into the empty air around her.

-

They sit at Wyatt's favorite restaurant, which brags the best Chinese food in the city, for almost an hour.

“Can I have more fortune cookies?” Mike asks a passing waiter. Harvey frowns at him, and though he doesn't annul the request all together, Mike tacks on a, “Please?”

“Really?” Harvey cocks an eyebrow.

Mike ducks his head and mumbles, “Sorry, Harvey. I'm just...” His stomach grumbles. “...hungry.”

“Wyatt _is_ taking a while,” Harvey says. “I hope he's not too afraid to grab a cab again. I'm feeling famished myself.”

A waiter with a platter of what smells like chicken-fried rice walks by, a sharp stab of spice and vegetables to the nostrils. Mike lifts his head and whimpers. Harvey opens his mouth to comment on the pathetic expression his associate has, but his phone buzzes in his breast pocket.

His assistant's voice filters into his ear. “Wyatt's little geek squad fixed his issue. He's too busy bathing naked in microchips to eat right now. You're off the hook.”

“Then we may as well enjoy ourselves...on his dime,” Harvey replies, eyes on Mike, whose cheeks are puffed like a chipmunk's, stuffed with the fresh batch of cookies brought to him.

“You're so smart,” Donna simpers.

Harvey clicks his phone off and inquires, “Found any interesting fortunes, rookie?” He waves toward the impressive pile of paper strips in front of Mike.

“You are talented in many ways,” Mike reads off a random one. He looks up and waggles his eyebrows at Harvey.

“You wish, kid,” the older man scoffs. Mike sticks his tongue out and Harvey's belly does a flip. He can finally recall exactly where Mike's talents lie. Whether he wants to, nevertheless, is a different story. “Let's order,” he says, in order to change the subject.

Mike claps like an excited seal. “Yes, finally!” Harvey rolls his eyes and feels sorry for himself, but not too much because his chicken and broccoli is delicious, and once he's swallowed a few bites, Mike recovers his illustrious wit. “You know, 2009's _Star Trek_ is getting a sequel,” he says.

“And that's what you want to talk about? Really?” Harvey smirks at him.

Mike smirks back. “Only because you've been dying to, but Donna and Jessica don't care, old man.”

Harvey flicks the crumb of a decimated fortune cookie and hits Mike in the forehead. “Specter one,” he taunts, “naughty puppy zero.”

“The fact that you only gave yourself one point means that we're making progress,” Mike replies, rubbing at the pink spot forming on his pale skin. The minor pain doesn't keep the grin off his face. Harvey chuckles, too, and the frisson of laughter that flowers in his chest doesn't languish even when they're back at the firm.

“What's with the creeper leer?” Donna asks him, without bothering to look away from her magazine.

Harvey has the urge to reply _huangjiu_ , the alcohol from the restaurant, and just leave it at that. Instead, he shrugs. “Lunch with Mike wasn't so bad,” he says casually. “I may even...ask the kid to dinner. Maybe someday soon.”

He's rewarded by Donna's full focus. “Oh, really? Well, you'd better hurry, then, Harvey, or something else might optimize Mike's time.”

“Mike?” Harvey laughs, unaware of how Donna's eyes narrow. “Please, Donna, I could snap my fingers at sunrise or sunset and Mike would _still_ hop, skip, and jump for me. I think I can take this slow.”

He returns to his quarters, and Donna glares a hole into his back, before pulling her cellphone out of her purse. _Change of plans,_ she texts Rachel. _You know that place we were supposed to discuss OH at? Ask Mike to go w/ you. Tell him it's a friend thing._

Once the message has been sent, Donna smiles and presses the intercom button between their offices. Harvey stares through the glass separating them curiously. “Oh, did I forget to tell you, Harvey? Rachel asked Mike out tonight.”

One of the prized baseballs on Harvey's desk tumbles to the floor and bounces sadly. For years afterward, Harvey will adamantly claim it was an accident, that he would _never_ throw his rare Babe Ruth ball on purpose, but Donna was there. Donna knows. Donna also helps her boss get reservations to an otherwise booked establishment for the night.

Harvey shouldn't have been so annoyingly cocksure around her.

-

Mike is not sure what to think when Rachel corners him after work to say, to _insist_ , “You're coming to dinner with me tonight. An ex-boyfriend of mine invited me to taste-test at his new sushi bar. I want to go, but it'll be really awkward if Touya and I are alone.”

“Um, Rachel,” Mike objects, “I really should get a head start on some of these documents. Louis dropped more off for me to proof.”

Rachel sighs and considers him coyly through her eyelashes, then says, “Mike, _please_? He'll think I'm not over him if I don't go or if I go alone. If I take you, even though it's only a friend thing, it'll be fine. Please?” Mike chews thoughtfully on his lip and she continues, “You have to eat, don't you? It's a free dinner, Mike, come on.”

“Okay,” he relents, “but there had better be at least noodles there. I don't like raw fish, Rach.” He makes a face, which becomes an outright grimace when Rachel grins and pinches his cheek. He swats at her hand. “Quit it.”

“You won't regret this, Ross,” Rachel says, before sashaying back to the paralegals' department. Mike watches her go, bewildered. He's no less confused upon seeing the white, form-fitting dress she dons later that night.

“U-uh, wow, Rachel, you look...” he stammers.

“Hot as a skillet on a fast-burning stove, I know.” Rachel beams at him. “Touya and I may have ended on mutual terms, but a girl always wants her ex to think twice. Thanks for agreeing to help.”

Mike gathers his bearings again and smiles, offering her his arm, which she hooks her elbow into. Together, they face the black marble structure of _Jigou Jitoku_ and walk in. “No prob. What are friends for?”

A suited man says, “Oh, Rachel, you came!”

“Yup, Touya,” Rachel replies, her eyes catching Mike's briefly, but they're both distracted by the man addressing Mike.

“You must be Mr. Ross?” Touya inquires curiously. “I am Sakamoto Touya, the host.”

Mike blinks at Rachel, silently wondering if she told Touya about him, but nods. “Er, do I know you?”

Touya shakes his head. “No, sir, but your table is ready. Please come with me.”

Rachel and Mike exchange another glance, then follow Touya past several waiters to a long marble table that's half empty, a chef at the forefront chopping vegetables with knives. They hear claps and laughter as they get closer. Touya excuses himself back to the entrance of the restaurant.

“It's often custom to share your table with strangers,” Rachel whispers into Mike's ear. “It builds amicability.” However, even she can't suppress a gasp when the man sitting at their new table turns and smirks up at them.

“About time, rookie,” Harvey says, refined as ever. His hair is sleek and dark under the gilded glow of the light above, which seems to dance over him on purpose, displaying how perfectly his suit sits on his recumbent body. It sends a punch of self-consciousness through Mike's gut, but he dredges up a smile, anyway.

The red-headed woman beside Harvey, vaguely familiar, does as well. On her pretty, heart-shaped face, the expression is considerably less genial. “Oh, your associate is here,” she says, words dripping with disdain. “Nice to see you again, Marvin.”

“It's Mike,” Mike mumbles.

Rachel pats him on the arm, then asks, “Not that it isn't nice to see you, but what are you doing here, Mr. Specter?” with a condescending lift of her eyebrow that Harvey would be proud of, were it not directed at him.

“Yeah, Harvey,” Mike punctuates, because dammit, he wants to know, too.

Harvey shrugs, suspiciously insouciant, sable eyes shiny with mirth. “Donna said you and the paralegal would be here. I've been meaning to visit myself, so I thought we'd double date,” he explains, before indicating his date. “This is Sera Saddle. You remember her, from the other night?”

Mike nods and says, “Of course. Who could forget that night?” through tight lips. He and Rachel take a seat across Harvey, who leans forward and ducks his head near Mike's, blind to how the chef has borne a blue bonfire at the head of the table, which licks heat toward them and causes the women to coo.

“I haven't forgotten,” Harvey murmurs. Mike hurriedly unlocks their gazes and stares into the fire. The smell of food sizzling is more pungent now, and although Mike told Rachel he wouldn't like the menu, he admits to himself that it's a likeable aroma, especially when he immerses himself in it completely, when he uses it to avoid Harvey's flirting.

The chef places slabs of fish on four dishes, along with bowls of steaming noodles, chopsticks, and rolls of sushi. He slides each dish over to his patrons. “ _Arigatō_ ,” Rachel says, while everyone else thanks him in English or with a crisp gesture.

Mike sags into his seat with relief when a few minutes pass, filled with nothing but silence and the click of wood, as they all start to dine. He pops what looks most like the California rolls he's familiar with into his mouth, then readily moans. Everyone looks at him and he colors.

Rachel riffs her eyes to Harvey, then back to Mike. She emits an exasperated noise and raises her chopsticks, plucking a piece of seaweed off his cheek with them. “You are a messy eater, Mike Ross,” she complains, ignoring the cough Harvey releases. “This stuff is clinging to you.”

Before Mike knows what's happening, she's leaning into his space and kissing him. It's chaste. His jaw has dropped, but her mouth remains shut, her lips firm and warm. The faint, spicy taste of _wasabi_ transfers between them, and he feels her thumb rub the last bit of seaweed from his face.

Harvey clears his throat again. It sounds more like a growl. “Wouldn't you children prefer a private room?” he snaps. Mike pulls his head away from Rachel's so fast, he fears he has whiplash.

“It's okay,” Sera comments. She's been so quiet up until now that Mike had almost forgotten her presence. “They're young and in love, Harvey. Let Marvin have his fun.”

Harvey begins to respond, and Rachel is straightening the piles of curls on her head in preparation to do the same, but Mike cuts both of them off by slamming his hands down on the table. Even the chef stares at him.

“It's _Mike_ ,” he grits out between his teeth, “and I hope you all had your fun fucking with me. See you at work.” Both of his coworkers shout after him, but he doesn't hesitate. Sera just seems confused.

It doesn't help when Harvey stands up, too, ready to abandon her, but Rachel grabs the man by the wrist when he's within reach of her and says, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt him.”

Although her brown eyes are huge and genuine, Harvey attempts to shake her off. “Let go,” he demands with a sneer.

“The _only_ thing I wanted,” Rachel continues, the mask of regret on her face hardening to stone, “was for you to admit, even to yourself, that you wanted him, that he deserved better from you, the great Harvey Specter or not.”

That freezes Harvey mid-step. “W-what?” he breathes.

“Just...go get him. Right now.” Rachel releases him and makes a shooing motion. “Tell him I'm sorry. I was only trying to help.”

Harvey swallows, and his throat burns from more than rice wine. He manages a nod and mutters a goodbye to his date, then waits no longer to follow after Mike. Rachel falls back into her seat and sighs. Sera frowns at her.

“What just happened?” the woman inquires.

“Men are even stupider when they're in love,” Rachel replies. “Sorry about that,” she appends, at the utterly lost blink Sera shoots her. Rachel feels bad that the woman wandered into the path of the train that is Harvey Specter without realizing it. “If you want, we can forget about those idiots, enjoy our dinner, and hit a club with Touya, the host? He owns one of those, too.”

It takes a minute for Sera to absorb everything, but she nods and mutters, “I need a harder drink than anything they have here.” Rachel raises a glass of _sake_ in assent.

-

Mike is standing at the curb, his arms around himself, once Harvey gets outside. He must have taken a cab and appears to be waiting for another. Harvey calling his name out doesn't halt the associate in the slightest.

“Mike, please,” Harvey says, upon stopping right behind the younger man, who still doesn't turn his way.

“What was this, Harvey?” Mike asks. His words mesh together, as if they're choking him. “Was it make a fool of Mike Ross night again?”

“No, Mike, of course not,” Harvey replies. He sets a hand on Mike's shoulder, but it gets shrugged off immediately.

“When you pull crap like this,” Mike seethes, “I almost can't like you, Harvey. I _do_ , though, so freaking much, but I almost can't. I know I deserve better.”

“I know that, too,” Harvey persists. “I can _be_ that.”

He stumbles back when Mike whips around and declares, “How? I don't want a sadistic master who spritzes me with water, Harvey; I want a _boyfriend_ who won't be ashamed, who won't kick me to the curb in the morning, as if I'm garbage. I want someone who'll care when I tell him Grammy is doing better, who really wants me for me.”

“I do.” Harvey walks forward and touches him again, grip more gentle now, easier to shake off, but Mike doesn't move away. “I've never been a boyfriend before, but I really do want you, Mike, and I'm willing to try. I'm willing to be there when you need me.” He pauses, then adds with a wry smile, “Knowing me, I'll be amazing at it, like I am at everything else.”

That shocks a puff of laughter out of Mike. “You're an ass,” he mumbles weakly.

“I'm amazing at _that_ , too,” Harvey agrees, in a tone that's vastly different from the one he used whilst telling Mike to push till it hurt. It's less shark, more angelfish, a balm for the hurt Mike has harbored since that terrible morning after. “I _am_ sorry, though, Mike, and so's your paralegal friend. Apparently, she was pushing for a revelation like this back there.”

Mike assesses Harvey's face for an excruciatingly long moment, but the man doesn't fidget, doesn't look away from him, doesn't take back his hand. Finally, Mike nods. “I guess I can be forgiving, at least this once.”

“To her or me?” Harvey urges. “Because, if you pick her on account of that admittedly formidable dress, I must confess to having a suit in the same color that brings out my eyes rather dashingly. I don't want to employ it, though; it simply wouldn't be fair.”

Mike forgoes answering to surge into Harvey's arms and kiss him. “You're still an ass,” he whispers against the older man's lips. “You're an ass who thinks he's funny when he's not, but...I guess I can forgive you, too.”

The strict disposition of Harvey's back relaxes. “Want to go back inside and get a private table?” he asks, thumbing toward _Jigou Jitoku_. He doesn't expect another kiss, nor the mischievous sparkle in Mike's blue eyes.

“Or,” the associate says with a Cheshire Cat grin, as a cab pulls up behind them, “we could go back to my place. It isn't far from here, you know?”

Harvey frowns from his armful of Mike to the waiting car. “You're being more forward than I thought,” he cautions.

Mike's grin widens till Harvey thinks his cheeks must hurt. “You already said you were my boyfriend–” Harvey doesn't mention that he only promised to _try_ , because that would do nothing save ruin the moment, “–and you made out with me in a public street. So you can wine and dine me later, Harvey, but I'm a dude, and I have a rigorous libido to satisfy.”

Harvey ponders over that, while the cabbie glowers impatiently. From what he remembers of their first night – first _marathon_ , actually – that's true. “I _do_ want to remember this time. Last time, I drank way too much,” he says.

“What we're doing tonight, old man, you won't _need_ an eidetic memory to remember.” Mike leers and tugs him into the cab by his expensive silk tie. He avoids Harvey's scowl to tell the cabbie his address.

-

Neither of them are quite sure how they make it up Mike's stairs – curse his perpetually broken, crappy elevator – while still attached at the lips, but they do. Mike slams Harvey into his door and untangles his arms from around the man to scrounge for his keys, raising a fistful of jangling rings victoriously once he finds them.

He unlocks the door and they both hasten inside. Mike tosses his keys, wallet, and jacket away, then hurdles back into Harvey's arms and starts on the buttons of the man's shirt. “Mike, Mike, Mike,” Harvey chastises, making a grab for his associate's flurrying hands. He keeps them cradled in his own. “Would you watch the tie, puppy? It's worth more than your entire wardrobe.”

“But, Harvey,” Mike whines, a pout on his lips.

Harvey lowers his head and whispers, “Shh,” against the brooding protrusion of Mike's mouth. “Let me handle this. Where's your room?”

Mike shudders involuntarily at the gruff tone, but nods his head toward a small hallway path. “T-through there.”

“Good,” Harvey murmurs, “because, now that I'm – now that _we're_ together–” This earns him a smile, despite the fumble, “–you have to let me take care of you. The dirty couch sex can come later, but on mine, because it's more sturdy. For now...”

“For now?” Mike breathes. Harvey merely smirks and allows their joined hands to dangle, a bridge between their bodies. He uses his hold to lead Mike, backwards, into his bedroom. Mike is inwardly jealous of how Harvey bumps into nothing along the way, poised as ever, but the flutter in his heart is stronger than the green-eyed monster's maw. Harvey directs him to his tiny bed and he plops onto it, unexpectedly boneless, eyes tracking his boss to a chair by the exit.

There, Harvey undoes his his cufflinks, jacket, shirt, vest and pants, each of which he folds meticulously; his tie remains. “Why don't you undress?” he inquires. The smug suggestion forces Mike to stop drinking up every inch of exposed skin, and he consents to his new task with a nod, fingers at the knot of his own tie. When both of their clothes are gone, Harvey stoops in front of him. He brushes his palms against Mike's ticklish inner thighs, but clasps his wrists again, stroking Mike's veins with his thumbs.

“Harvey,” the younger man sighs, eyelids shut. Harvey's touch is tender enough to make his most tense muscles unwind. Mike returns to awareness and gasps, however, once he feels silk replace skin. Harvey's tie is looped around his wrists, while its owner grins. “W-what are you...?”

“Just showing you what a _real_ tie should feel like,” Harvey says. “It doesn't hurt, does it?” he continues, the furrow of his forehead more sober, despite his fixed smirk. Mike shakes his head and Harvey smiles wider. He kisses the expression onto Mike's knee, then unfurls his body to an upright position. “I assume you keep what you need in one of those bedside drawers?”

“You'd assume right,” Mike answers cheekily, having regained his composure a bit. He's mostly curious now, blue eyes riveted to his boss' every move. Harvey is self-aware enough to realize that, so he kneels, braced like a ballerina on stage, in front of the drawer Mike specified. From it, Harvey extracts a half-filled bottle of baby-oil that, his initial scorn aside, slicks his fingers up and goes from cool to warm straightaway. He returns to his place between Mike's legs.

“Let me take care of you,” he says again, tapping a wet fingertip to Mike's knee. “Trust me, I'll make it good.”

“I do trust you,” Mike whispers. The words wedge in his throat – whether because of the delicate fan of Harvey's chuckling breath against his skin, or the way Harvey starts to roll his balls in one hand, he's not quit sure. Harvey kneads and Mike throws his head back. Soon, his cock is covered from root to crown, the tip of one manicured nail scratching lightly at his slit. Pre-come mixes with oi,l and Mike's fingers jerk, desperate for something to grip.

His silent wish is granted when Harvey lowers his head to swallow Mike's cock whole. The older lawyer burrows his nose in Mike's abdomen, in an airy trail of fair hair, and Mike lets his hands drop onto coiffed brown locks in return, marveling yet again at how soft they are. Harvey interchangeably sucks in his cheeks, greedily catches what fluid escapes with his tongue, and fondles Mike's sensitive balls. Mike gulps in a sharp breath. His fingers clinch harder in Harvey's hair, and his cock swells within the man's full lips. With a last grunt, he orgasms.

Harvey pulls back, mouth shiny, and says, “Turn around.” Mike scrabbles to do so, then pants in relief when Harvey climbs after him and undoes his binds carefully. “Not done yet,” he promises into Mike's shoulder.

Upon running his hands down each ridge of Mike's spine, Harvey relocates his yet oiled hands to his associate's ass, where he traces a fingertip around Mike's puckered hole. The first two fingers enter together and Mike contracts around them, then spasms open again, mimicking the motion of Harvey scissoring. A third soon follows. They push in and out. Mike grinds back against them and Harvey groans.

He draws out the appendages, drapes himself over Mike's body, and levels the head of his own engorged cock into the younger man's entrance. A hand reaches around Mike's hip to hold him, to palm him from the base of his balls to the head of his cock. Harvey thrusts in. Mike is all satin heat, even after the foreplay, and Harvey is still for a moment, mere seconds, but can't help pounding in. The bed-springs creak. Harvey pulls halfway out and angles another stab in. He hits a particular bundle of nerves, Mike's prostate, and they both keen at the sensation. Mike's clenched ass milks Harvey continuously.

All too soon, Harvey spurts inside Mike. He squeezes his associate's cock in tandem with each pulsation of his own. Mike whimpers and makes a mess of the sheets. They fall into a sticky pile of limbs together. Harvey rearranges them so he's curled around Mike, flips a blanket over them both, and gets a sleepy smile in return. It's a good enough reward that he doesn't even care about staying in a dump for the night.

This doesn't, of course, mean that he won't seduce Mike into moving in with him someday. Just not right now.

-

Rachel sidles up to Donna's desk the next morning, once again dressed primly in her white blouse and black skirt. Donna smiles up at her, away from the small book she's flipping through, once the younger woman is near. “How'd it go last night?” she inquires.

“Mikey texted a _thank you_ at four a.m., so I'd say pretty good.” Rachel and Donna high-five. “By the way,” Rachel adds, “your boss owes me big time. I was babysitting _his_ date till the wee hours.”

Donna laughs and shakes her head. “When that man has something in his sights, everything else takes second point,” she says affectionately.

“Like I said, a total dick,” Rachel deadpans. “He'd better watch it around Mike, though. I took self-defense for years and will hand his smug ass to him if he screws with that boy one more time.”

Although Donna gives the paralegal one of her infamous _looks_ , the groove of her lips is still triumphant. “Take a seat, Cynthia Rockworth,” she replies, while foraging through a drawer. Out of it, she extracts one of Harvey's most treasured bottles of wine and two glasses, soon filled to the brim with crimson liquid. “To celebrate.”

Rachel crows in delight as they clink their glasses together. That's the moment Jessica chooses to walk in. She looks between them, the alcohol, and the book Donna continues to scrawl inside, then asks, “Where's Harvey?”

“He and Mike are taking a late day,” Donna informs her, the crane of one eyebrow challenging.

Jessica stares at her for a second. Rachel fidgets in her seat. Donna writes. Eventually, however, the senior partner says, “About damn time. Good work, Donna, Rachel.” With that, she exits.

“Harvey is _so_ giving me a raise,” Donna says, because Rachel hasn't stopped gaping. “I'm sure Jessica won't be averse to giving you one, as well.”

Rachel regains her aplomb and asks, “What _are_ you doing, huh?”

“Playing with Harvey's planner. He will propose to Mike in a year and a half,” Donna answers, smirking. “That sounds feasible, doesn't it? They need to make good use of New York's new gay marriage laws. He'll be meeting Mike's grandmother immediately, though, to get her blessing. Lovely woman.”

Rachel ruminates on this new information over a long sip of wine, but nods. “Sounds good to me. I'll need about as long to plan the menu for Mike's bachelorette's party, anyway. He's the pickiest boy I've ever met.”

“Amen, sister,” Donna says. They tap their glasses together again and decline into a fit of giggles. Operation Hike is a resounding success.

-

_The End!_

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is also available on my journal [here](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/29045.html#cutid1). I had such a blast writing it that I hope you've had half as much fun reading. Please let me know what you thought here or there; I love to hear any feedback you had to offer. ♥


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